Sam Snape, Coldblooded Wizard Detective
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: After the downfall of Voldemort, Severus Snape is bored with his monotonous life. He begins to solve mysteries, starting with the oh-SO-important Stolen Secret Recipe.
1. How I came to be in this Mess

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. And if I reference to anyone else that does not seem to be original, chances are, they aren't. But I do have some of my own original characters in here (i.e., maybe, JUST maybe, the characters I didn't mention in this disclaimer?) Please don't take these! However, if you do, I can't see what I can do about it. Just refrain, please?

Sam Snape, Cold-Blooded Wizard Detective

The name is Snape. Sam Snape. Private eye.

…Well, actually, it's _Severus_ Samuel Snape, but I dropped my first name and the 'uel' of my second after the Dark Lord was finally banished four years ago. It makes my life, as a whole, a lot simpler. Sure, Sam is no wizard name. It is definitely Muggle. However, I hardly ever spend any of my time in the wizarding world anymore anyhow, so it doesn't matter much. I've banished myself forever to remain in within the realm of the highly dense civilization of non-magical folk.

Why, you ask, do I retire myself from the life I once lived to transplant myself in completely knew surroundings? The fact is, there are too many memories in the wizard world. Even after Voldemort was defeated by the blasted boy Harry Potter (not without a good amount of uncredited help from ME, no less,) my mind began to become restless, and my memories began to push out into the open again. Memories of many, many, things. Most of which you wouldn't want to know about if I paid you to listen. My brain, no longer under the stress of danger and vulnerability, began to become lax, and I very quickly became bored. Albus…(no, I know what you're thinking—I never killed him, and he never died. It was all a fiasco to put Voldemort off-guard. Anyhow…)…noticed this, and suggested I go off somewhere and become interested in something new. What a laughable idea. Yet, as I became gradually more and more desperate, I took up liquor (not for the first time, I'm sad to say…) and made my way through the day even more irritable and more evil than my usual self. At nights I fell into an inebriate's slumber, awakening almost too late in the morning to go to instruct my increasingly stupid, to put it bluntly, classes.

The worst change in me was my alcohol-induced forgiveness to Lupin and James Potter. Once Harry and Remus had come to visit me, Harry to thank me for saving his b-tt during the final battle, and Remus just because he wanted to come. I had been partaking of Ogden's rather freely a bit too early in the evening, and, to disguise very thinly, that fact, and just to plain get them out of my hair, I told them thanks now get out, thanks, ok fine I forgive you, and yes I'll forgive James, and yes I'll forgive Sirius, now get out, thanks, bye. They left feeling very satisfied, I'll bet. I didn't realize what I had said until morning, when it all came back to me like someone dumping a bucket of cold water on my head. I wasn't too pleased, but what could I do about it now? Go back to them and say, "Oh, yeah, well, sorry about last night, I meant nothing I said, I still hate you folks, yada yada yada?" No, even I, snarky old mean Snivellus, have more dignity than to go back on my word, despite the circumstances under which it was given. So I just avoided them both ever since, and that's all that happened. Sorry people who thought I was going to say I went and blasted Lupin's brains out and fed Potter to dementors!

Anyhow, the people who best knew me (Minerva and Albus) noticed the change in my attitude towards life. They say how I no longer cared for anything, how I always took to my rooms, how I skipped most meals and all other get-togethers. Although this was just a little more extreme than my usual ways, they somehow sensed my mental sickness. Finally, they forced me to talk it out with them. Their conclusions were that I was so bored as to be almost dangerous. At the end of the year, Albus dismissed me from my post of potions master, very gently but very promptly, and informed me of a lovely island in Hawaii that would make for an extremely rehabilitating visit. This, of course, I refused. I was NOT about to surround myself with tropical flowers, tanned ladies who can't speak proper English, and pineapples. Albus, at my decision, almost lost his temper at me. (Apparently, though he wouldn't admit it, he was getting so bored himself that he had nothing better to do.) Then, though, I had a temporary burst of genius amid the hangovers…dash it all, why not go live with the Muggles?

The thought had never occurred to me ever before. If I, in actuality, had ever remotely considered it, I would have dismissed it with a scornful air. But, for some strange reason, it now caught my fancy. Theirs was a world most interesting right now, especially when compared to our rather humdrum lives in Wizarding England. What with the War on Terror, Osama Bin Laden on the loose, Saddam Hussein, and all the rest of it. It would be almost like the 'good old days' of the war, when I actually had a purpose in life besides consuming strong beverages and sulking over Lily—wait, I said that out loud? Blast. Well, I suppose, since she's been long dead for decades, there's no real harm in confessing it. I was (wait, scratch that…AM) in love with Lily Evans. Yes, Potter Sr.'s wife and Potter Jr.'s mother. The one and same Lily Evans. And I haven't gotten over her, not yet I haven't.

Anyways, we've been getting just a tad bit off topic…now where was I? Oh yes, the Muggles. Well, what with all the squabbles they've been having amongst themselves, lately, I decided that I may as well leave the wizards and go help out in what small ways I could in the Muggle world. And how better to do that than start a detective agency?

"Oh no," you're probably thinking. "Oh no. Snape + detective work big mistake. How in the world could this catastrophe be possible?" In answer to this, I'll try and explain as best I can. I've always considered myself an extremely logical man with a good deal of common sense. In addition to this, I even am somewhat, if not highly, intelligent. A rather odd and especial combination; many people with common sense have little or no education, and many others who are highly intelligent have no common sense. And, also, I tend to notice things. Little things, things other people usually miss. Like a tiny crumb at the corner of someone's mouth that indicates that they've been indulging in a between-meal snack. Or like an unintentionally mismatched pair of stockings which could mean that either a) the wearer dressed in the dark or b) the wearer had nothing that matched better or c) they were in too much of a rush to dress to notice. Or like any number of other things that show a lot about a person. In the position of a private investigator, I can use this skill to my advantage. So that, combined with the fact that I knew little about the Muggle world in general, I decided that this would be an ideal undertaking for a middle-age-just-on-the-verge-of-old bachelor with absolutely no way of doing anything else worthy of note in his life.

So here I am, I've rented out an office in Muggle London, attached my firm's name to the door, and set up an advertisement in the newspaper. I've put away my robes and wand, instead getting out a comically unobvious tan raincoat and a registered Colt .42. I've even scrounged up enough cash to purchase a Muggle laptop to take advantage of the free wireless internet of this building. All I need is the notorious divine-goddess-of-a-secretary/sidekick-whose-only-fault-is-that-she-wears-glasses to answer the phone, and a fedora for myself, and I'm all set. But I think I can wait on these until I've returned a rich duchess's pearls to the rightful owners a few times over. I've waited a day for a reply to my ad, and I'm counting down the days until my rent is due on the apartment. To occupy my spare time, I do daily the crossword puzzles in the Muggle Times and write memoirs of my Death Eater days. And I'm writing this journal entry, didn't you know?

I think, though, that I'm going to close up shop now and head out to a local pub for an hour or so. Merlin, I need something strong.

Saluting in hopes of more zealous endeavors

Sam Snape

--------------------------------------------

To Be Continued!

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	2. The Nearly Knapped Secret Recipe

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. And if I reference to anyone else that does not seem to be original, chances are, they aren't. But I do have some of my own original characters in here (i.e., maybe, JUST maybe, the characters I didn't mention in this disclaimer?) Please don't take these! However, if you do, I can't see what I can do about it. Just refrain, please?

………………………….

The Case of the Nearly-Knapped Secret Recipe

I'm writing this next entry because it was my first case here in London, not because it was of much estimable merit. But whatever…

Well today began like any other day normally did, for me. I awoke where I had dozed off last night in my recliner, stood up, stretched, and went immediately to my computer for my online-update with all the strangers I regularly chat with on the internet. Little did I expect that this day would be any different from those that I had lived every day for the past two weeks.

It had been as long since my ad had been placed in the paper. No one had replied to it, though a few former students and colleagues from Hogwarts prank-called me on the Muggle telephone to see if it was really me. When I picked up the receiver, they would breathe for a minute, ask if they had reached the office of Samuel Snape, hear my assent, falter and begin to say something, (or, as in the case of the Weasley twins, giggle insanely) then think better of it and ring off. It became most tiresome after a while to the point that any time the infernal machine rang, I would feel like chucking the thing out the window. However, that would not do very well for business, I suppose, so I had to consent to learning to deal with it.

Finally, about midday, just after I had showered and poached an egg for some fashion of a lunch, there was a timid knock at my door. Even this did not greatly catch my attention. I had ordered some books from online, and I expected them either that day or the next. "Come in," I called.

I watched the grubby brass doorknob jiggle, startled, as someone grasped it, and it slowly turned. Then the door opened.

A small, middle-aged Muggle woman stood there. She was very petite; her expressive china-doll-perfect face was well made up. Her physique was slight, though the clothes she wore, a tweed skirt and jacket, hardly emphasized the fact. Her hair was a soft brunette with streaks of grey here and there, and her eyes were two copper pieces glinting on the sidewalk at sunset. She grasped a tweed purse agitatedly. Overall, she gave me the impression of one who tried her best to look smart, but who didn't very much know how to. I judged, based on her standardized generic make-up, that she probably sold the stuff for a living. I myself stood and politely pulled out a second chair for her, placing it directly across my desk.

"Do come in," I said as amicably as I could manage (I hoped, for her confidence's sake, that I didn't still reek of the two pints I had downed this morning earlier.) With a small smile, the woman sat down on the heavy leather chair that I proffered in a way I thought looked professional. I observed that, on the corner of her purse, was inscribed the name 'E. Dorkas." I settled back down in my own chair. "Well Ms. Dorkas," I said, using the "startle and impress" approach on the woman. "What brings you here today?"

As I expected, the little woman was unfathomably amazed by my simple conclusion. Her expression entirely changed from somewhat nervous to completely astounded. "My word!" she said stupidly, several times over. (She's one of the only few people I know of who actually use that phrase anymore…just an interesting piece of trivia for you…) Finally, when she finished gawking at me as though I had suddenly announced that I was the newly-declared king of Peru, she said something else. This something else consisted of: "Well, are you Sam Snape, the detective? Am I in the right place?"

That struck me as somewhat hilarious. Perhaps it doesn't affect you in the same way, but that's how it appeared to me. And I nearly laughed, but I refrained, being rather anxious to retain my strong impassive image.

"Yes, I am Sam Snape. And yes, since you inquired as to such, you are in the right place." I extended my hand and she shook it languidly, with a sigh.

"Well, I'm all right, thanks to my newly-installed security alarm." This is what she said.

"You had an attempted burglary?" (That much was far too obvious, and I wasn't even trying to use the startle-and-impress method…)

Again, however, she gaped at me innocently, as though I had turned into a butterfly. Which would be very bizarre, for I feel that I have absolutely nothing in common with butterflies. If I were to turn into any animal, I should think I would either become a coyote or a raven. Maybe even a spider. But that's beside the fact. Wait…I just realized those last two sentences rhymed…what a coincidence…but now I'm TRULY going off-topic. Back to what I was saying.

So she looked at me for a long time. Finally, she got the nerve to say, "Well…yes…now, that was amazing!"

I gave her a smirk and looked down at her in an almost-superior manner. "Now, madam, would you be _so_ kind as to explain to me the purpose of your visit in a timely manner? I'm _quite _a busy man, you know."

(That was not a mistruth; there was a discussion on Yahoo! just then that I was anxious to join, about…well, it's not important, so why should I tell _you_?)

Then Ms. Dorkas smiled genuinely. "Of course, I'm so sorry," she said quickly, and she hastened to explain.

"Well, I own a bakery down on Piccadilly," she began quickly.

"Madam, please do not hurry yourself. I would prefer that I understand you rather than have you say everything you need to within an impossibly small amount of time. It would be best not to mumble and look at your feet like a bashful schoolgirl, either, just for your information; posture improves one's annunciation considerably. Now I have…" (I made a grand spectacle of checking my appointment book…which at the time, only held the times for my dental appointment later that week with the mediwitch…what, so I still go to the wizarding dentists though I live in the Muggle world, nothing wrong with that is there…but anyhow…so I checked my appointment book) "…quite the most of an hour before my next client arrives."

"Is that enough time?"

"It usually is sufficient, yes, exceptional cases unconsidered."

"Oh, all right," she said nervously. "Well, it all began yesterday."

I collected my pen and posed it meticulously over a cheap bright yellow notepad, raising one eyebrow at Ms. Doraks as I did so. After a moment's awkward pause on her part, I sensed that she didn't exactly know how to begin.

"Now, what happened yesterday?" I prompted her gently.

"Well," she floundered, "Yesterday I came into the bakery as usual--"

"—I beg your pardon," I interrupted. "But would you enlighten me as to _which_ bakery?"

"Oh, how silly of me, of course!" the woman muttered, "The bakery I and my husband own."

So much for the cosmetics-saleswoman theory. I was instantly glad I hadn't alluded to that.

"I see," I murmured, starting a rough sketch of a bird on the paper with my pencil. It was very entertaining to see how I held her in suspense as I stared so intently at my paper while I drew. Some small amounts of alarm, curiosity, and suspicion were in her alert eyes. Finally, I gave up on that segment of the wing and turned back to my client. "Go on," I said dramatically.

"So I came into the bakery," she said carefully. "Al was already in there, 'cause he always does the heavy baking by night, when we don't have customers."

"The full name of your husband is Albert Dorkas?" I asked suddenly. I came to that easily, from knowing that Al was a common abbreviated name for Albert, and that this Mrs. Dorkas was…well, his wife.

She looked at me. "Yes, how on earth did you know?"

I stared at her. "It is called observation and deduction, my dear lady."

She nodded in awe, shifting uncomfortably under my scrutiny. "Astounding."

"But what is your Christian name, just for my information?" I just realized that she hadn't exactly given me this information really in this rather roundabout conversation.

She slapped herself hard on the head. "Of course! I'm so sorry, how forgetful of me! My full name is Eleanor Agnes Dorkas, there you go."

"Don't slap yourself, madam, if you deem my advice worth considering; it kills brain cells, which can be very instrumental in performing daily activities." I just had to tell her, even though I was (correction…AM) a slave of the habit of hitting myself also. Well, that's my worst vice of nowadays--besides my alcoholism, of course—but that's really not much considering that I did, in my youth, cut myself on purpose. Dumbledore, who was acting as somewhat of a counsellor to me at the time, advised me to slap myself instead of cutting myself when I was angry at something I had done. His idea, apparently, was to wean me onto something still destructive but less violent, and then to get me off of even that. I never did get over the slapping part, though. It's somewhat hilarious; whenever I slap myself in his presence, he winces, because he knows that he's at fault for that habit of mine. He's talked to me about it before, told me to stop it, and he was, in fact, the one who informed me of the fact that it was damaging to the brain. But the habit has become too ingrained for him to do anything about it now. Well, as I said, it's better than keeping a razor in the sole of one's shoe and running off to a secluded closet to streak one's arm with red scratches. But I see I've really gone off topic. How is it that I am able to write so fluently about these things when I haven't discussed them with a soul for years? Bizarre. All right, I must focus on the narrative again….ahem. ANYHOW.

She looked very peaked for a moment, but she said nothing. I scribbled down her name and her husband's, just in case I randomly forgot them, not that I had any intention of doing so.

"Tell me…about your bakery," I said, finally.

Mrs. Dorkas' eyes lit up. "Well," she said, (I noted on the pad that she used the word 'well' far too often when beginning her sentences) "Al and I set it up when we were first married. It was, and still is, a lovely little shop, the perfect place for one to stop by for a leisurely afternoon tea, the old fashioned way."

I nodded. "Indeed, many find it difficult to reserve time to have their tea properly, myself included. It is a rare day when I am able to find the capacity to have anything other than tea at work." This was entirely true; I never had enough pocket cash ready to be able to indulge in such frivolities as afternoon tea at a restaurant, at least on a normal basis. Mainly, I simply boiled my tea, served myself a few stale crackers from a box that had been open for weeks, and had it at the computer.

Mrs. Dorkas smiled shyly. "Well, sir, if the Mrs. and yourself ever--"

Here, however, I broke in again. "There IS no Mrs., madam."

She looked at me a bit closer. "Oh, really?" she said, tilting her head to the side, as a bird does when it looks at you curiously. "You seem as though you would be the family type."

Here I could not restrain a snort of contempt. Me, married, a family? A constantly depressed, often inebriated, ever-scowling, ex-death eater who hated life and the world in general? In her dreams, the foolish woman. But then, she didn't know any of this unless she was better at deduction than myself, which I very much doubted. For her presumptuous comment, I 'let her off' easily, however; she was merely scathed by a glare and an uncomfortable comment on my part.

"Indeed not. But is this _truly_ relevant to the case at hand?" I tried to seem as aloof as I could.

The flustered woman shook her head quickly, her hair whipping across her face as she did so. "No, no, of course not." She took a breath. "Remember what Al said to say…remember…"she murmured to herself under her breath. Raising one eyebrow at the woman, whom I was learning to disdain increasingly with every passing second, I leaned back in my chair. Perhaps she would come to her mind someday.

It did take her a full five minutes to collect her thoughts and then, finally, turn back to me. "All righty," she said, more confidentially than she obviously felt. "Well," (again) "Basically, I need you, sir, to find my burglar."

"Ah." That was all I considered necessary to say. I hoped to Merlin that she would continue of her own accord.

Thankfully, she did…after a momentary pause and an expectant glance from me. "You see, I came into the bakery as usual yesterday morning."

I was surprised and rather impressed. Apparently, this woman had replayed the entire conversation in that five minute lapse of time she had spent silent, and was able to remember the exact sentence she had gone off her mark. This, I decided, was the first more favourable element of this woman. I did not like her at all yet, I simply realized that there was more to her than I had thought at first glance. I decided, in my head, to classify her as the epitome of a Hufflepuff. Better them than Gryffindor, anyhow.

She went on. "When I came in, as usual, and Al had left to go sleep at home, I set the burglar alarm on the perimeter of the store to prevent any early-bird hooligans who had been up all night in the bars and such from breaking in."

Scratch, scratch, my pen running across the paper. Now I was drawing the head of the bird.

"I see," I encouraged, when she seemed to expect a response.

"Well, so I did that, and then went to the back to decorate the pre-order cakes that were being picked up that day. Then, suddenly, the burglar alarm went screaming. I ran out to the front of the store and I figure ran right past me from behind a shelf. They dashed out through the skylight in the lavatory, climbing up a rope they had brought, I guess. I tried to go after him, but I didn't have a rope. Then I dismantled the alarm and ran out to the street to see if I could see the burglar from the street."

She paused breathlessly. Apparently, the only way the woman could recount experiences were by speaking extremely fast and unintelligibly.

"I didn't see him. He had gotten clean away." Here she sounded almost happy about it, as though she relished the fact. "Well, then I went back inside to see what he had been trying to steal. I then saw that the door to the office had been thrown open. I hurried in there, and, to my great shock, saw that the safe's lock had been severely damaged."

She paused dramatically. I looked at her and prayed she would continue without my saying anything. Talking disturbs my thought process.

"I approached it and examined it. I saw that someone had tried to rifle the safe, but that they were unable to. The crowbar they had been using to pry it open lay forgotten on the floor. I opened the safe, properly, and saw to it that its contents were undisturbed. Nothing had been taken, so then I went back to the phone and called the police."

I looked at her. She had purposefully, I knew, evaded answering the question of what was in the safe. To be blunt, I asked her. "…And what was in the safe that was so _important,_ may I ask?"

The woman looked positively nervous. "I wouldn't want to tell you that, sir," she said.

I stood up, a dark look coming onto my face. "Are you sure of that, madam?"

The little Mrs. Dorkas nodded uncertainly.

"Then I suggest," I said coldly, "That you put an end to this nonsense and remove yourself from my office."

"Wait, I didn't mean it like--" she quailed, flinching.

I interrupted her. "--If you will not be so kind as to inform me of all the facts, withholding none that are relevant to the case, then obviously the matter is not as important as it would seem. In that scenario, this appointment…" (though it was definitely not pre-appointed in any sense of the phrase) "…is a perfect waste of both my and your time." I strode angrily to the front door and threw it open. "I wish to bid you good day, madam." All this was a simple stratagem of course. As much as I disrespected her, I wouldn't throw her out without giving her a chance to talk. This was merely a conspiracy on my part to get her to talk _quicker._

Mrs. Dorkas looked at me, looked at the door, looked at me again, and cracked. "Mr. Snape," she said feverishly, "If you think it is so important what we kept in that safe--"

"By Mer—er, God, it is!" I nearly had forgotten to curse in a Muggle fashion.

She looked at me rather oddly; I'll grant you she had the perfect right to do so, as well.

"Well, all we keep in that safe," she said slowly, "Are my recipes."

I stared her down as I closed the door and made my way back to my desk.

"Yes, I know, it sounds rather bizarre, but some of those recipes are older than me. My great-grandmother was a fantastic baker, and she passed down all of her priceless baking tips down to my grandmother, then my mother, and then to me. I am, myself, endowing them to my niece."

I nodded as I leaned back in my chair again. Seeing her expectant look, I hastily grabbed my notepad and sketched a very detailed eye to the bird.

"So," I said finally, "There is nothing in the safe save these recipes?"

"No, Mr. Snape, nothing."

"I see." More scratching. This sketch was coming out to be quite good, actually. When I finished it, I decided to scan it and put it on the internet. With the money generated from its sale as a graphic, I might just be able to pay my rent this month.

"Now would you tell me, who exactly would want to steal your recipes and why? Are there any particular recipes that any particular person might desire?"

"Well…" the little lady thought, "Nearly every baker I've come across has always asked for my Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme."

What a horribly tedious name for a simple coffee cake. I said nothing, although I did start to form the beak of the bird. By a slight mishap, my pen slipped, causing it to become terribly contorted. Ah well, it would be a vulture now.

Almost on cue, there was a knock on the door.

I rose and stalked across the room, surprised. I had lied when I said that I had another client coming, of course; for a moment I was rather startled. With a curt, "Just a moment, Mrs. Dorkas," I threw open the door.

…………

To be continued! Please rate and review if you care about me. sniff


	3. Millicent Campbell

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. And if I reference to anyone else that does not seem to be original, chances are, they aren't. But I do have some of my own original characters in here (i.e., maybe, JUST maybe, the characters I didn't mention in this disclaimer?) Please don't take these! However, if you do, I can't see what I can do about it. Just refrain, please?

A very tall, taller than me, plump woman, brandished an umbrella in what one might consider a hostile manner. I took a step back, rather startled. Her dress was a faded and stained mauve calico, and her snow-white hair was done up in bouncing, frivolous curls. Her blue eyes were bright and cheerful, and seemed to hold a sense of eternal optimism.

"Ellie!" The shrill woman shrieked. "There you are!"

Eleanor Dorkas looked confused. "Hello Millicent," she said cautiously, curiously.

Even with the acknowledged familiarity between the two women, I still was unsure of whether to let the woman with the umbrella inside.

Millicent sensed my hesitancy. "Come on, man!" she demanded. "What am I, the fishmonger? Let me in!"

I stood my ground. "Not unless Mrs. Dorkas deems it alright. She has come here on confidential business."

"Not confidential from me, surely!"

Mrs. Dorkas shook her head vigorously. "No indeed, dear. Let her in, Mr. Snape."

Wincing at the 'Mr.' as opposed to my true status of 'Professor,' which I had abandoned in Muggle civilization, I took a step back and admitted the formidable lady.

I pulled an extra chair from the wall and brought it up to my desk in a gentile way. I noted, as 'Millicent' took her seat, that despite the fact that she seemed quite old, however, she moved with a quick, athletic grace uncommon in her aging years.

"We might begin," I hinted to both or either of them, "With an introduction?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, how incredibly silly of me," Mrs. Dorkas succumbed. The poor woman had absolutely no backbone. "This, Mr. Snape, is Millicent Louise Campbell, my fellow neighbour, baker, and dear friend."

"Ah. Hullo." I made no other comment.

Mrs. Dorkas went on, "Millicent, this man is Samuel Snape, a detective."

Millicent smiled. "But of course," she said, "Al told me you were coming up here to talk about the burglar you had."

"Indeed. But why did you come, Millicent?" Mrs. Dorkas looked a bit put-out indeed.

"Well, I had to be sure that you were all right, dear. No offence, but you're absolutely horrible at dealing with people."

Mrs. Dorkas smiled wanly. "Yes, you're quite right." She paused. "I _don't _know what I should do without you, Milly," she said, unnecessarily.

Mrs. Campell looked like a bird fluffing her feathers importantly.

I glanced at my watch pointedly.

Mrs. Dorkas stood. "Oh dear, I've taken up so much of your time already, Mr. Snape…I am sorry about that…"

I shrugged. "Nevermind, my next client isn't due for another few minutes," I lied effortlessly. "Do continue, only, try to be as brief as possible."

Mrs. Dorkas looked like a lost sheep again. I had to bring her home. "Your secret-chocolate-whatnot," I reminded.

Mrs. Dorkas smiled. "Ah, right, the Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme." She looked relieved for the first time since Mrs. Campbell came.

"Well, sir, the Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme is what our little teashop is renown for. And no baker in town has a coffee cake, or any other cake at that, like it at all. Of course, there are some knock-off-the-shelves imitations, but nothing _quite_ like the real Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme." (Here, I must note, I was getting a bit tired of the Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme. After all, she said 'caramel' with three syllables…so it was even longer…)

However, I nodded appreciatively. "Of course," I remarked.

"Now no one, not even Millie here, knows the secret of my Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme. Not a soul besides me. And believe me, scores and scores of people have offered me even money for the recipe. Perfect strangers come up to me on the street and try to get it. But they never succeed. And they will never succeed. At least, not until my very death." Here, she laughed uproariously.

I decided to put in a question. "Mrs. Dorkas, if this recipe is so important to keep secret, why do you even bother writing it down? You could merely memorize it, couldn't you?"

She nodded. "Yes, but what if I were to meet with an accident of some kind? Say, a car runs into me on the street? What shall become of my precious recipe then? No one shall ever know how to make it!"

"But who would know how to open the safe? What purpose is a recipe that no one can access?"

"Al knows the combination, and he'll not ever open it unless I tell him to."

"Of course." I paused. "Now tell me a bit about this husband of yours."

Mrs. Dorkas smiled. "He's s a lovely man. We've been married for three years, a year after since my previous husband passed away in a train accident in France."

"And you knew him for…how long before?"

"I knew him for two years before my husband died, meeting him at a Baker's Conference in town. When I met him, he was the recent widower of a wealthy woman named Elise Vancouver." She said the name as though it meant something significant. Millicent hastened to explain upon meeting my puzzled look.

"She was the co-editor of Foreman and Vancouver's Baking Magazine, the most eminent periodical of its kind." It was the information I was looking for, despite the fact that it sounded as though it were read right off of a reviews page.

I nodded in gratitude. "Thank you. So would you mind explaining—"

But my words were cut off by Millicent, who stood. "You know, Ellie," she declared, "I really don't know why we're bothering this man. He's really too busy to listen to this silly incident. It was probably, as the police said, just a common cat-burglar. We're wasting our time; this man can probably do no more for us than what the normal authorities have."

Mrs. Dorkas stayed sitting. "Now Millie, we've come all this way…"

"No buts about it, dear. We're leaving this man now; you've taken up quite a bit of his time." And with that, Millicent grabbed the arm of her friend and almost literally yanked her up. "We must be going, sir. Do excuse us." And she turned to go, dragging little Mrs. Dorkas behind. I stood up and opened the door politely for them. If they were going, well, I may as well remain polite.

"Here's for your time, so sorry to have bothered you," Mrs. Dorkas said meekly, pushing a bill into my hand. As her friend's back was turned, however, she made a 'call me,' sign with her right hand, and dropped a business card on the floor.

I waited until they were safely down the hall, out of sight, before retrieving it. On it was printed, in simple black-and-white, the name and address of the bakery, and the business and private phone numbers of one Eleanor Dorkas. I slipped the card into my pocket and wandered back into my office. I would join, rather late, my chatroom on Yahoo, then after what I deemed the correct amount of time, I would call Mrs. Dorkas.

Well, at least I now had a case. Magnificent.

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To Be Continued!

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